


The One With The Convenient Undercover Mission

by silverlining99



Series: Law Enforcement [1]
Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-07-18
Updated: 2009-07-18
Packaged: 2017-10-28 19:35:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/311449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverlining99/pseuds/silverlining99
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>For <a href="http://st-xi-kink.livejournal.com/7030.html?thread=16041590#t16041590">this</a> st_xi_kink meme prompt that went haywire.</p>
    </blockquote>





	The One With The Convenient Undercover Mission

**Author's Note:**

> For [this](http://st-xi-kink.livejournal.com/7030.html?thread=16041590#t16041590) st_xi_kink meme prompt that went haywire.

The conversation - the _dictate_ , Christine recalls with more than a little residual annoyance - had gone something like this: Kirk called her into McCoy's office and prattled on about a paid assassin and Starfleet Intelligence tracking him to a black market outpost moon within spitting distance of Klingon space, where Starfleet officers would be less than welcome. "So!" he'd concluded cheerfully, "we've all got to sneak on down and blend in and hunt him down. Should be fun. Nurse Chapel, you’ll be backing Doctor McCoy up."

And her eyes had widened and she'd said, "no, no way," and McCoy had just about thrown down the PADD with the intelligence briefing. "Not a goddamn chance in hell, Jim," he'd snapped. "She's a _nurse_ , she can't -"

Before she could even work up a good snit over that, the captain had tossed up his hands, all 'don't blame the messenger, guys,' and said, "We've all got our orders. Mission starts in two days - Bones, stop _grooming_ so much, you might as well tattoo 'I'm With Starfleet' on your forehead. Chapel...uh. You might want to talk to Lieutenent Uhura. She's working on...wardrobe issues."

Which is pretty much how Christine Chapel, armed with nothing but a nursing license, an overprotective grouch of a doctor, and a distressingly revealing skirt and bustier ensemble that makes her duty uniform look positively prudish in comparison, wound up leaning against the scarred wooden bar in a dive called the El Civ Depot, fighting the urge to cringe as McCoy takes understandable advantage of the easy availability of Romulan ale while they keep an eye on the front entrance.

“This is stupid,” she gripes, frowning as she takes an elbow to the side from someone shoving into the space beside her.

“You’ve mentioned that,” McCoy replies. “Repeatedly.”

“Yeah, well.” She sighs and turns to do a quick scan of the bar, wishing she could just spot their guy so this would be over with.

No such luck. The guy next to her, however, looks her up and down. “Hey there,” he says, and reaches for her.

She jerks back, bumps against McCoy. He sets his drink down in a clatter of glass on wood and swivels on his stool and surges to his feet right beside her. His arm snakes out and wraps around her waist, pulls her flush against him. "She's taken," he growls. "Hands off."

Fact is, Christine has certainly entertained her fair share of fantasies about Leonard McCoy. She's a warm-blooded woman with a thing for structure, order, grooming, and intellect, and she works a hell of a lot of delta shifts and needs to fill the quieter hours _somehow_. There are a few other crewmembers who've been granted starring roles - Commander Spock, for one; hell if he doesn't appeal to just about every prim and proper bone in her body - but generally, usually, it's been McCoy. She's always chalked it up to being a function of daily exposure and familiarity and left it at that, happily gone along concocting elaborate scenarios in her head that she thought were, at times, downright risque.

Key word: thought. Verb tense: past. Somehow, bizarrely, every single one of them seem abruptly pale and tame in contrast to the reality - the innocuous, manufactured, _pretend_ reality - of nothing more than his arm around her waist and his hand, curled possessively on her hip, and the knowledge that he's there, rumpled and rough and unshaven behind her.

Sweet Jesus, Christine thinks, but his hand is huge. She wonders how she never noticed that particular detail before.

She wonders just exactly how long he's going to leave it stretched across her bare skin.

A few moments longer than feels strictly necessary, it turns out. Her - suitor, she think with a faintly hysterical mental laugh, shrugs and turns away, wanders off with his drink, and McCoy takes his time about letting her loose and settling back onto his stool. Christine sucks in a deep breath before turning back to him, hopes against hope that nothing in her face betrays her. "Okay?" McCoy mutters. He finishes off his drink in one large gulp.

"Just peachy," she replies shakily. "Guess the mission brief wasn't exaggerating about the, uh, social norms here."

He shoots her a dark look. "Hope you've figured out by now that my not wanting you here didn't have a damn thing to do with trust."

The reassurance, as gruff as it's delivered, makes her cheeks warm. "Yeah, got it." Someone shoulders roughly into the abandoned space behind her and she stumbles, has to catch herself fast with a hand on McCoy’s shoulder. Her fingers brush his neck, at his hairline, and his muscles bunch and tense. "Sorry," she murmurs. "These ridiculous heels..."

McCoy shakes his head. "Chapel, those heels are about the _least_ of your problems with ridiculous articles of clothing."

"I was trying to _forget_ that fact, thanks." The reminder of her skimpy outfit makes her suddenly, uncomfortably aware of every inch of exposed skin. The body behind her keeps brushing against her back; she edges closer to McCoy. "You might want to get someone else to help with the captain's next physical."

He snorts. "Not a chance. He's all yours." He gets up and grabs her hand. "Come on, we'll find somewhere less crowded."

Christine sticks close as McCoy shoves his way through the throng of bodies around the bar, cringing slightly every time she has to brush close against someone, every time anyone takes the liberty of a quick stroke across her bare stomach, a slap to her ass. She bites back every indignant protest, worried that McCoy will cause even more of a scene the next time if he becomes aware.

He stops short at a spot along the side wall, about midway down the length of the bar. Christine shifts from one foot to the other, her toes pinched and the balls of her feet aching. She's not pleased at the thought of the next however-many minutes she's going to have to remain standing.

She's even less pleased, though, when McCoy suddenly drops into a tattered, battered armchair and pulls her down with him. "Hey, geez, warn a girl, would you?" she complains, wincing at the impact of her spine against the unpadded arm. She scowls and scrabbles for leverage with one foot on the floor, tries to shift her way to a comfortable perch as far out on his legs as possible.

"You never bitch this much on the ship," he remarks, matching her scowl with one, a better one, of his own. "Would you just -" He slips an arm under her knees, his other around her waist, and tugs her close. Settling her legs over the arm of the chair, he rests his hand on her knee. "Try to look a little less like you find me contagious, Chapel. It's not really in keeping with the role."

"Contagious, no. Contemptible is still under evaluation," she snaps. "I hope you have springs digging into your back."

"Not a one." He twitches an eyebrow as she mutters angrily. "Come on, it's not so bad. Get comfortable already and we can keep an eye out without half the assholes in here copping a feel."

Christine flirts briefly with the idea of telling him that getting groped by strangers is about the same degree of upsetting, if for different reasons, as being crammed against him like this, when every glance she casts about shows her just how comfortable other people are getting, in similar positions. The simple fact that she doesn't want to have to apply for immediate transfer off the ship upon their return makes her bite her lip and relent, instead. She wriggles gingerly to settle her ass into the sprawl of his thighs and twists her torso a little, manages to find a workable resting position leaning against his chest. "Sorry," she offers. She tries to ignore the faint scent of his cologne, tries to relax. "Nice view you managed."

McCoy adjusts the arm supporting her back and lifts his hand to sweep her hair back and over her far shoulder. When he settles his hand rests on her leg, over the hem of her too-short skirt. She can’t help but focus on the heat of it, the span. "Yeah," he scoffs. "You got me, Chapel. I'm really a spy extraordinaire with amazing door-finding skills. To think of all the years I wasted on medical school."

She laughs and thumps his chest. "Impressive as that is, I think my vote is doctoring over deviousness for you." She narrows her eyes, considers. "I suppose you can keep the beard, though, if you want. It's not half as bad as I thought it'd be."

His mouth twists. "Ah."

"What, 'ah'?" she asks, and skims her gaze over the cluster of people milling near the door.

"Nothing. Just narrowing the field of possibilities."

"What are you talking about?" she presses. She returns her attention to him. His fingers twitch a little, two of them scraping lightly over her skin, and she can't help the responding flutter of muscle in response. "Possibilities for what?"

"For what exactly it is about this fucking farce that's got you all hot and bothered," he says mildly.

Christine finds it abruptly impossible to move, to do anything other than breathe. He laughs softly. His fingers move again, slowly this time, deliberately. His other hand slides a little against her hip, warm, a little tacky with sweat. "So which is it, the roleplay or the company? Or maybe a bit of both, huh?"

She can't seem to look away from his intent, amused gaze. "I am _not_ -"

"Oh, come on. I'm a doctor, not an oblivious schoolboy." His hand skims up her hip and twists; he trails the backs of his fingers across her belly and over the stiff panel between her breasts. His palm flattens on the slope of her chest. His eyes hold hers, steady, challenging. "Sounds like you like that, too, the 'doctoring'. Maybe I should go over the symptoms leading to my diagnosis?"

She swallows hard; he raises a challenging eyebrow. "Let me see. Pupil dilation, check. Elevated respiratory activity, got that." His fingertips press down on her collarbone and release and his gaze flicks briefly to her chest. "Epidermal vasocongestion-- you're red as a damned _lobster_ , Chapel."

She jerks her head around and scans the crowd wildly, blindly. His hand moves a few inches and his fingers feel for her carotid. "There it is," he taunts, his voice low. "Mild tachycardia." Christine trembles. A sharp, aching twinge between her legs makes her squeeze her thighs together. McCoy's hand eases around the side of her neck and draws her head closer and she bites her lip as his mouth grazes her ear. "Situational myotonia," he rumbles, and releases.

The thing Christine has always liked about rules, whether they be irrefutable scientific principles, military protocols, or plain old social mores, is that they provide predictability. Stability. Much as she envied the old friends from home who rolled their eyes at the concept of Starfleet and shipped out on civilian vessels to get their thrills, she chose to enlist precisely because she's never really felt brave enough for adventure on the razor's edge. Starfleet, she'd figured, was at least kind enough to tell her how to behave when faced with the unexpected.

She's fairly sure she's stumbled upon a significant gap in the code of conduct, and she sort of hates McCoy right now for revealing it to her, for calling her out like this. "Sympathetic nervous system response to stress," she hisses. "Fear responses. _Doctor_."

"Hm." He pauses, then his hand drops heavily onto the leg closest to him. He strokes slowly along the length of her thigh, from knee to hem, a light and tickling touch that raises gooseflesh in its wake. "Differential diagnosis, then." He stops. His fingertips slip just under her skirt. "Easy enough. I've seen you in a crisis and I don't think fear gets you going, not at all. So... maybe a quick digital exam is in order, to check for vaginal vaso -"

Christine squirms helplessly, the ache spreading, tightening low in her belly. He stops short with a quiet grunt and she stills, realizes what she's been too distracted to notice. Hell with protocol, she thinks. She'll let anger be her guide. She grits her teeth and glares at him.

"Oh, you want to discuss vasocongestion some more?" she says, an edge to her voice. She snakes her hand into the tight space between her leg and his groin, cups him, squeezes gently. He sucks in a sharp breath and exhales a soft curse along with the air. "All right, let's talk vasocongestion. Let’s talk _tumescence_. Is it the feminine mystique, McCoy, or are you just bad at your job, because I only need _one_ symptom to make this call and I didn't even I to medical school."

McCoy's hips lurch up against her touch and she smiles, hard, at the sight of him clenching his jaw. "So tell me," she says softly, innocently. "Is it playing doctor for you, or is it the company? Or maybe a bit of -"

"The company," he snarls. Her arm aches, twisted awkwardly between them, but she firms her touch and rubs to express her appreciation for the answer before taking her hand away entirely. "Goddamn it, Chapel- "

"Watch the door," she says unsteadily. She manages, gracelessly, to shift her legs off the arm of the chair and set her feet on the floor. McCoy's hands fall from her as she lurches off his lap, and he clutches the arms of the chair, white-knuckled, while she wedges first one knee and then the other into the cramped spaces available on either side of his legs. She doesn't settle against him, not all the way forward, not just yet. She braces her hands on the cushion behind him and leans in close. Without touching him, she lets herself take a deep breath, draws in the twisted scent of sweat and cologne and flesh near his collar. "You're kind of a jerk," she says, matter-of-factly, near his ear.

He touches her thighs, rubs them. "You probably should have figured that out before now," he says dryly. He shifts his gaze from the door to her face and quirks a brow, just as he reaches under her skirt and rubs the slick, damp skin at the juncture of her thigh, toys with the elastic of her underwear.

Christine's arms tremble and threaten to buckle. She settles her forehead to his shoulder and closes her eyes. "I had," she says. "Just, well, more of the uptight, straightforward sort."

Of course, she'd had herself figured as the same sort. She's learning a lot tonight about just how wrong impressions can be. McCoy eases the damp fabric of her underwear to the side and finally, finally provides the touch she wants. Her hips jerk and chase his hand, and she moans when he takes it away. She lifts her head and stares at him accusingly and her mouth falls open as he runs his fingers under his nose, inhales, then slides them between his lips and sucks. "Oh," she whispers weakly, every ounce of lust-drunk courage abruptly abandoning her as reality sets in and makes her stomach lurch and twist. Pure need fills the vacuum left behind. “You...”

McCoy smirks. "I may not wear my every perverted thought on my sleeve like a certain captain I could name, but it doesn't mean I don't have any." He grasps her hips and urges her to crawl forward a little more. When her knees can go no further, jammed deep against the crack of adjoining cushions, he shifts a little so she can settle against his groin. His face twists briefly, viciously, as she rocks down, tries to find just the right fit against the ridge of his cock. "For example," he continues, his voice strained, "I've got half a mind to unzip and take you right here, in front of everyone."

The words, the _thought_ of it, send a jolt up her spine. Christine shudders and grinds against him. He palms her ass and lifts his hips, breathes hard, cranes his neck to catch her ear between his lips and suck wetly. His beard, too new to have softened, scrapes across her skin. "But I won't," he mutters, and licks her neck. She moans. "When we get back to the ship though, Chapel... Christ, but the things I'm gonna do to you- "

"Tell me," she gasps. She needs to hear it, needs him to fill in the terrible, jagged holes in her imagination she hasn’t ever acknowledged, hadn't even known existed. She runs her hands down his chest and scrabbles for fistfuls of his shirt, gathers it until she reaches bare skin, palms the overheated flesh of his back. "Tell me, I want to know, I want- "

"You don't even know what you want," he mutters, his head falling back. He strokes up and down her back and she closes her eyes and presses her face to his neck, rotates her hips desperately. "Full of sweet thoughts, I bet, girl like you. All beds and romance?”

She can’t breathe, she can’t-- The tight need becomes almost painful, makes her start to ease back. “No,” McCoy says harshly. He grabs her hips, jerks her in tight, thrusts up again and again. Christine digs her nails into his back and moans in time with his sharp movements, the sensations that spark through her with each one. “Fuck,” he bites out. “Chapel, you-- I’m gonna put you over the first table I can find-- christ, _shit_ , that’s it, good-- gonna fuck you wide open, girl, you’re gonna beg -”

He may go on, may keep growling out threats, promises. If he does, Christine doesn’t hear it over her own loud cry and the blood rushing in her ears. She goes rigid, her muscles contracting hard. McCoy wraps his arms around her as she goes limp against him, tucks his face down to mouth wetly, obscenely at her jaw as he keeps chasing his own release. When he does come it’s with a choked off groan, right next to her ear.

He relaxes slowly. His arms ease around her and he lifts a hand to caress the back of her head and lift her hair away from her sweaty neck. Christine sighs. She considers moving and discards the idea in favor of keeping her face hidden, keeping her hands tucked under his shirt, rubbing slow circles into the taut, bunched muscles of his lower back. Long, silent minutes pass. “McCoy?” she finally mumbles quietly.

His only response is a soft grunt. Christine sits up, forces herself to meet his hooded gaze. He looks tired and satisfied, maybe just a little smug. “Any chance you’ve been watching the door?” she asks. He closes his eyes and groans, and she laughs shakily. “Well, what’re the odds he showed here anyway, right?”

Kirk says, sternly, from off to the left and above, “Oh, I’d say slim to none, considering Spock and I caught him down the street.”

Christine freezes. McCoy groans again, longer this time, and shakes his head, doesn’t open his eyes. Funny, she thinks, how fast a dream can turn into an outright nightmare. When it becomes clear McCoy is taking the cowardly bastard way out of things, she jabs her thumb into his kidney and looks up slowly. “Captain,” she offers weakly. “Um... been here long?”

She is not at all surprised to see that Kirk has picked up an impressive black eye somewhere along the way. It doesn’t seem to be bothering him much; he rocks on his heels and grins at her. “Something tells me you would just _love_ to know,” he says, delight in his voice. Her heart sinks even further than it already has. “I came to gather my wayward babes and wrap this up, but if you two need a little more time...”

“ _Jim_ ,” McCoy says sharply. Christine sneaks a glance at him, sees him glaring up at Kirk.

Kirk’s grin grows. “Yeah, Bones?”

“Fuck off.”

Christine cringes a little, but Kirk just laughs. “Shuttle’s leaving in twenty minutes. Be there.”

McCoy sits up carefully as Kirk slips off into the crowd. “It’s okay,” he mutters. He helps her to her feet and holds her up as she stretches the cramps from her legs. “I’ll take care of it.”

She looks up at him and tips her head to the side, considers everything. “Great,” she says slowly. “But... think you could do that _after_ you rustle up that table you mentioned?”

McCoy blinks at her, then ducks his head and laughs. “You’ve got your priorities in order, Chapel,” he says, and slings an arm around her shoulders. “I like that.”


End file.
